Plausible Deniability
by Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Kink meme prompt:"Mycroft would sometimes use his little brother for experiments. At first,"innocent" but some turned a bit inappropriate and sexual? This might have resulted in Sherlock's aversion to sex and Mycroft has a lot of guilt, hence his overprotection." This is non con holmescest (not the "nice" kind),as well as explorations of asexuality and abuse and how they intersect.
1. Meeting

Time to meet your big brother!" she coos.

Mummy scoots over to the side of the hospital bed and pats the newly created space as he hops up to join her. To join them, he mentally corrects himself. Mummy and Sherlock.

She carefully places him in Mycroft's arms.

* * *

Mycroft knew Mummy was concerned that he would be jealous about the loss of attention. She had talked to him at length...endless variations on a theme... about how love didn't just run out. That there was an endless supply of it. More than enough for Mummy and Daddy and My and the new baby. How he was going to be The Big Brother, and that that was a very special job. She had kept him involved in the process... explained to him where babies come from, how they grow, how they come out. He got to feel Sherlock kick and shift positions, and even got to see the ultrasound. The technician had been impressed by how much he knew about sound waves, and this made him very happy indeed. That was also the day Mycroft found out that Mummy was having a little boy. Just like him. Only, of course, he was seven now. Not so little.

"Is that a penis?" Mycroft asked the technician, pointing at the screen.

The technician blushed, caught off guard by the frankness of such a young child. "No. That's just the umbilical cord. That is how the baby eats while it's in your mummy's tum."

Mycroft huffed at the condescension.

"We can't see from this angle, My. Maybe if the baby moves a bit." As if on cue, the baby shifted, and the technician pointed out to the mother that it was, indeed, a boy.

"Are you sure? The labia can look like a scrotum. It protrudes too, in infants." He continued his investigation of the screen.

The technician was rather annoyed at having her competence questioned by a young child, regardless of how precocious he seemed, but tried to take it in good humour. "Yes, they can look similar, but it is far more common to think it is a girl and it actually turns out to be a boy."

"Because you just didn't see all the parts clearly, so you assumed they weren't there," Mycroft said, mostly to himself, satisfied.

"Mycroft, if you use 'you', the lady will think you are talking about her."

"I'm not," he said.


	2. Experiment

Mycroft dumped the coloured water out of the glasses and into the sink, frowning as the contents landed with a loud splat.

"Really, Daddy. One would think he would be smarter than that."

"It's not about intelligence, Mycroft, it's about experience. He doesn't understand mass, or volume, or area. It's too abstract a concept right now. His brain can't perceive it yet."

"How old was I? When I could get it right?"

He sighed. "It isn't about getting it right. Conservation experiments are about how you preserve something in your mind...preserve its essence...even as its form changes. You have to be able to see that the liquid itself doesn't change when it moves to a taller glass. To him, its being in the new glass makes it a new thing, not an old thing with a new shape."

"But it's happening right in front of him. He doesn't have to remember anything."

"He has to make the connection between the liquid in the old glass and the liquid in the new one. It's as if he is remembering what the liquid looks like in the old glass and recognising it in the new one as the same thing."

Mycroft was still disappointed. He expected his brother to grasp things quickly. At least be ahead of any "theoretical children".

His father smiled. "It's nice to see you have such faith in your brother's skills, but it is supposed to happen between 5 and 7 years old. Two is a bit young. Even if he doesn't get it until next year, or the year after, he will still be ahead of the curve. It's not really something you can teach him. You just have to wait for his brain to develop."

"How old was I when I understood it?"

"I don't think we ever really tested that sort of thing. Four, maybe?"

Mycroft frowned. Clearly they weren't taking this parenting thing very seriously. How could they not have collected any data? How would he know where he himself stood in comparison to others? At least he could be counted on to monitor his brother's progress.

He picked up some modelling clay from his mother's studio and showed Sherlock two balls that were approximately the same size, asking him if they were so. Sherlock nodded. He placed them down on the table, then took one and rolled it between his hands until it was a long, thin snake and put it down beside the ball.

"Now, does one have more clay, or are they the same?"he asked.

Sherlock pointed to the snake.

Mycroft shook his head, while Sherlock wiggled the clay snake and made hissing noises.


	3. Bubbles

Yes, of course he could run a bath for Sherlock.

Mummy had called his brother's hair an "absolute and total mess", and he agreed. The honey had made the curls stick together at odd angles, and there was simply no combing through it. Mycroft had no idea what had possessed Sherlock to run the sticky stuff through his hair. Perhaps he was just perpetually investigating things and lacked Mycroft's compunction to keep his hands clean. Then he would invariable touch the bouncy curls, pulling to straighten them and releasing to watch them spring back into place. This time it was sticky enough that even Sherlock agreed a bath was a necessity.

"An abslooten total mess, My. My hair, My. My locks," he laughed to himself, revelling in the wordplay. " 'Locks locks, My!"

"Yes, time to wash 'Lock's locks," he chuckled. "Do you want a ducky? Some bubbles?"

"Ducky...no. Bubbles...yesyesyes!"

Mycroft ran the water while Sherlock undressed. He poured in a packet of Dragonberry Very Berry Bubble Bath, placed his hand under the tap while adjusting the temperature, spread his fingers and angled them to spray directly at the powder and create more bubbles. Sherlock loved to watch the powder's metamorphosis.

"My, My, My, My, help, help!" he called out. The neck scoop of his favourite shirt was by now far too small for his growing body and he fidgeted, naked, the shirt caught just under his nose, lodging itself tight during his attempt to pull it off over his head.

"My, My...quick! I need to see the bubbles!"

Mycroft freed him from his shirt prison in time for him to watch the last of the powder transform and he hopped into the tub as it was filling, confident the water would be the perfect temperature.

He moved his fingers again and sprayed Sherlock square in the chest, making him squirm and giggle. He scooted up to the faucet to play with the water as it came out of the tap and attempted to splash Mycroft back with tiny fingers. In retaliation, Mycroft merely placed his larger ones on top of Sherlock's and directed the spray back at him, this time unintentionally hitting his penis as Sherlock continued to laugh.

Mycroft kept the spray directed at the same spot, curious to see if his brother's younger body would react to the stimulation of the water the same way his sometimes did. Would it feel good to him, too? He didn't have a clear view... a pudgy leg blocked the ideal angle, but the shift of Sherlock's body toward the water made him rather inclined to believe it did. Mycroft made sure to hit the same spot consistently, and was now able to spot physical evidence of the stimulation.

Eventually, the bath water rose to the bottom of Sherlock's chest, and Mycroft turned it off and let him play in the bubbles, making miniature snowmen under his supervision.


	4. Just a Crack

The steam from a hot shower felt especially good on chilly mornings like these, and he enjoyed the sensation of the water beading on his chest, clinging to the new crop of sparse body hair. He shampooed thoroughly, and then rinsed. As he lathered up his forearms and biceps he examined them carefully. It was difficult to notice the changes himself, but others seemed to easily enough.

_Deeper voice. Increased muscle tone. Entirely too much fat._

Neither of his parents were especially heavy, so that was in his favor, but his uncle was what many would call a large man and the last time Sherrinford had come home from Uni he wasn't looking especially fit. But, for the time being, Mycroft was pleased with his appearance. He ran his fingers over his chest, brushing lightly against his nipples, checking for a response. Sure enough, they hardened at his touch.

He washed his body slowly and methodically, and when he was sufficiently clean he turned the water pressure and temperature up and began to stroke himself slowly, letting random flashes of people pass through his mind until he found someone who sparked his interest. An old girlfriend who had left him. The boy she had left him for. Both of them. It didn't much mater, so long as he was the one in control. He abandoned the elaborate fantasy about how both of them had pursued him separately, finding that all he really needed was the physical sensation; who it was originating from was irrelevant.

The hot water grew cold, and it was getting distracting. Mycroft turned it off and grabbed a towel, drying himself off in front of the bathroom mirror. He stayed in place, drying himself slowly, carefully, sensuously, with the plushest towel he could find.

When he caught a glimpse of greenish-blue eyes and tiny sliver of a cheek flushed with embarrassment, just before the visage hastily turned down the hallway, he smiled slowly. Maybe he did leave the door open (just a crack, mind you) accidentally. Sometimes it didn't latch properly if you didn't pull it hard enough.


	5. Penguins

Sherlock always fought bedtime. To actually turn his brain off long enough to get some rest was inconceivable, even though Mycroft had patiently explained that it was during this stage that your cells regenerated, so if he actually planned on growing, he would need to sleep. Still, Sherlock preferred to stay up reading, sneaking a flashlight and a stack of books under the blanket. Mummy finally decided it was simply not a battle worth fighting.

When Sherlock finally did fall asleep, it was usually in an odd place, and usually in the late afternoon, so really, Mycroft didn't give it a second thought when Sherlock's focus drifted away from the telly and he began leaning heavily on his shoulder. After a few minutes, he shifted again, this time sliding down his chest and ending up with his face entirely in his lap, exhaling a steady stream of warm breath.

"Oh, thank God," said Mummy, looking at the boys. "I have no idea what time he finally fell asleep last night, if he even did at all. Try to keep still, would you?"

_I'm not touching him,_ Mycroft reminded himself. _I didn't place him there. If he were to just turn slightly to the left then he would... his mouth would be..._ His brother turned and nuzzled into the warmth of his lap. _I didn't ask him to turn. I haven't placed his lips against... and..._ and no, he wasn't thinking of his little brother's lips. He was thinking about going to boarding school next fall, and this programme about... about what? Penguins. Sherlock. He was just... there... just sleeping. Breathing steadily. Ohhhh but that felt good. He could feel himself react, push against his trousers and.. should he shift himself? nonodon'ttouchyourselfatalldon't but that made it a mental activity in addition to a physical one, and concentrating on _not_ concentrating on it was an abysmal failure. In fact, it somehow made it even more intense. He could feel himself growing harder and his erection strengthening without any need for touch, and this mental exercise was intriguing. Just the, the breath and the ... there... another shift of Sherlock's head that he _did_ feel this time... really feel... and his breathing increased and his heart raced and he had no idea what to do. He felt certain he was going to come. Right there on the sofa, in the same room as his unknowing mother, with his sleeping brother in his lap.

He moved Sherlock's head away, gently, but still as quickly as possible, and dashed to the toilet. His mother turned to look at him, her attention drawn by the sudden outburst of motion, but he mumbled something about having to pee and not being able to hold it in anymore ...and no sooner was the door closed than his hand was down into his pants and he didn't even make it to the toilet paper. He stayed there by the door, leaning his forehead against his arm. With the drop of the chemical rush the guilt returned, but he quickly shoved it aside. He hadn't touched him. He'd never touched him. He had just let him sleep. He returned to the room, and they were none the wiser.


	6. Gratitude

He was leaving in mere weeks, and his departure would provide a natural impetus to stop, but until then, what was the harm? Another night by the telly, another golden opportunity.

The times it was just the two of them were best. It was thrilling when someone else was in the room, truly, and the adrenaline made it more intense, but he still much preferred when he and Sherlock were alone. When he could leisurely stroke himself without due vigilance. So much more intimate. Sometimes he would shift slightly as he did so to lightly kiss his brother's forehead. He longed to run his hands all over Sherlock's sleep-warmed body, to return the favor, so to speak, but he limited himself to a gentle stroke of the back of his neck with his thumb, just below the unruly curls, in gratitude... whispering soothing words whenever Sherlock would momentarily stir, until he drifted back to sleep.


	7. Consent

Mycroft returned home each long holiday. Sherlock would come join him on the sofa, or even, occasionally, in Mycroft's room, on his bed. He noted the puzzled look which would flit across the younger Holmes's thinning face for the briefest of moments (far less baby fat now, handsome features emerging) just before he chose to rest his head in his older brother's lap and close his eyes. Mycroft was relieved. Though he was still unsure if Sherlock retained any level of awareness, his decision to seek him out was certainly proof that if he did, it was most certainly mutually pleasurable, consensual. He stroked his back slowly, following the path of his spine down to its base at the curve of his arse.

Mycroft considered, not for the first time, ...enhancing... the length of his sleep, but was concerned about being found out. His brother's observational skills were nowhere near his own, of course, but he was becoming more astute, and he had yet to find a drug that was completely without odor or flavour. Still, the longer he contemplated this, the more the risk seemed negligible and the reward great.


	8. Home

Mycroft graduated, began a career in public service, and came home rarely.

Sherlock went away to boarding school, then University, and did not come home at all.


	9. Visit

The first time Sherlock didn't return for the holidays, Mycroft decided to pay him a surprise visit. Though he frequently worked alongside of some of the most brilliant minds in the nation, none of them could hold a candle to his younger brother. He knew of the difficulty, the impossibility, of forming true friendships, but what he and Sherlock had was a deeper understanding. He missed that easy camaraderie far more than any physical contact, and he was far past such youthful indiscretion, in any case. There were more appropriate outlets available to him, and he used them as needed.

Under the pretence of searching for a seat, Mycroft took the opportunity to covertly survey the tiny studio flat, although Sherlock was well aware of this and found his attempt at duplicity amusing. No events on the calendar, save academic deadlines. The bed, pushed against the wall, making it impossible to get out from the other side. Clearly, he had never given the slightest thought to sharing it. No new CDs, his taste not having been broadened by a significant other. The telly was facing Sherlock's modern designer chair rather than the sofa. A room thoroughly designed for one. The flat was not compulsively neat, nor was it the chaotic mess of someone unable to cope with life's demands. He chose the sofa.

"Does my living arrangement meet with your expectations?" Sherlock grinned.

"No one?"

"I have no interest. Though you really do need to check the lavatory before making such a definitive proclamation."

"Hardly necessary."

"Perhaps I simply prefer to spend my time at her larger, more comfortable place?"

Mycroft responded with a raised eyebrow.

"Or his," Sherlock added.

"I certainly did not come here to judge any aspect of your relationship. If you had actually had one. Of course, if you are looking to, fulfil your needs, there are many ways to do so outside of one." Mycroft had spoken far too quickly; he hadn't time to assess how that would have sounded. It wasn't meant to be suggestive. Although Sherlock paused for mere seconds before forming a response, Mycroft was all too aware of Sherlock's careful analysis of what he had just said. Why? Did it sound like he was offering something considerably more inappropriate than a vague allusion to escorts and one-night-stands? He didn't think he wanted... that... any longer, not as an adult, but perhaps on some level... and Sherlock was clearly reading him deeply. He focused on looking unaffected, nonchalant. It would not do to look as if he was reconsidering his own words as a possible thinly-veiled sexual invitation. Why should they have been interpreted as such? Merely a snarky joke between brothers.

"I would see to it they were, fulfilled," Sherlock responded, his voice deep, but strangely quiet, "if I had any such 'needs'."

This was unexpected. Mycroft felt a wave of sympathy.

"Sherlock, sometimes we want things that are seemingly incompatible with what others expect of us, and we convince ourselves that we shouldn't feel..."

"For God's sake, Mycroft, do you really think I'd give a damn what society thinks? The general consensus of a world filled with idiots? I'm not homophobic. Sex, any type of sex, does not alarm me. I am just not interested in it."

Mycroft considered pressing the issue, but he had already gotten far more personal than he had ever intended. This was dangerous territory and there was too much risk. He needed to leave. Needed to think without being observed.

"I see you are living reasonably well," he said. "Neater than usual."

"Cleaner than usual as well."

Mycroft nodded. He looked over at the small kitchen table, cluttered with mismatched glassware filled with varying amounts of solutions. "Bit difficult to store your experiments here. Why not use the laboratory?"

"I do, on occasion. I just prefer to work at odd hours. It suits me."

"I see. Well, perhaps next time I will give you more notice. Or perhaps you will choose to grace us all with your presence. Till then,"he gave a short bow and headed out of the flat.

At home, he concluded his actions had affected his brother (perhaps on a subconscious level?) far more deeply than he had previously imagined. He phoned a colleague who posed as an inspector from the Department of Weights and Measures. The official had insisted that Dr. Michael Stamford dispose of the "defective" beakers and "outdated" centrifuge immediately, even though the instructor had insisted there was not a thing wrong with them. As soon as the inspector left, leaving replacement equipment in his wake, Stamford sighed, and offered the old, "defective" equipment to the tall, thin man in the suit jacket who came in fairly regularly. They struck up a conversation about idiotic governmental regulations.

Next, Mycroft began to research the city's CCTV system in earnest.

* * *

[Authors Note: my readership dropped off a bit after Penguins, so if you don't mind, I'd love to hear from those of you still here, since I can't hear from those if you that left :( Any pm feedback would be helpful. Good comments, bad comments, the more detail the better. Always looking to improve.]


	10. A Vexing Problem

"You have a vexing problem. It is not often you would deign to call upon me." Mycroft stood imperiously in the doorway of the Strangers Room. "Pray, have a seat," he gestured toward a chair.

Sherlock barely glanced at his brother, focusing instead on the ornately carved, wooden chair before him.

"I believe I would prefer to stand."

"Still presenting difficulties, after all this time?"

"Damage to the upper spine. May yet heal, in good time. You missed some of your Serbian friends' best work with your late arrival, though you did still manage a front row seat. Not, however, why I would prefer to stand... although that chair was certainly not selected for comfort."

"How can I be of assistance?"

"This is, not related to a case."

Mycroft frowned. "You seek a personal opinion? I'm afraid our tastes do not generally coincide, Brother Mine. Regarding our parents? Mummy's apparent fascination with line dancing is indeed unfortunate, however, I believe it is our father's attraction to cross-cultural studies that is truly to blame in this instance." Sherlock gave him a tight smile. "So long as they choose to remain in The Buckle of the Bible Belt, I fear a certain degree of curiosity is... as inevitable as the protests against the proposed statue of Baphomet on the grounds of the State Capitol."

"I only seek your opinion as someone who has grown up within the same family constellation. Nuclear family. Extended."

"Why would someone who had no love for our cousins and despised family reunions concern himself with extended family? I should hardly think your sudden interest in genealogy is due to your adding branches to the family tree..."

"No for several reasons, all of which you are...painfully aware."

Mycroft hid a sudden stab of guilt behind a well-placed smirk. "...And interest in our ancestral background, that would indeed be a first for you." He sat down.

"Irrelevant. No. Worse. Family heraldry reinforces prejudice of all kinds. What I require," Sherlock scrutinized Mycroft's features carefully, while continuing to feign disinterest, "is data. Your impressions are as good as facts."

"On what? Was Mummy resentful she gave up a promising career as a mathematician to raise her sons ? I think not, by the way. Did Aunt Margaret always want a boy? Do you long to know who cheated on their income tax? Or perhaps who cheated on their spouse with..." Sherlock cut him off with a forceful glare. He sat in the chair previously offered, moving forward so as to occupy just the edge. Mycroft paused before continuing. "There's only one reason why someone so unconcerned with family scandal as to buy Uncle Rudy a lovely pair of size 14 heels for Christmas would be interested in dark, family secrets. It involves you."

"Correct."

"And if it involves you, the only reason you would have to... and you would only do this if there was no other option... ask me for clarification, would be if you have a degree of uncertainty, which would imply... " Mycroft leaned forward in his chair, placing his elbows on his knees, his face grave. "Youth or deletion, Sherlock?"

"How can one tell?"

"Youth would be relying on one of your senses without the others being equally developed... pieces of a memory. Visuals without sound. Audio only. Scent only."

"An incomplete picture."

"Precisely. Whereas deletion..."

"Would have a before and after. Gaps in between."

"Yes. And a coping technique, for... trauma... would be a vivid memory of an inconsequential object, such as a plant in the room, or the texture of a patch of carpet. Something you would have focused on in great detail to distract yourself from the situation."

Sherlock began to tent his fingers under his chin.

Mycroft waved his hand at Sherlock. "No need to examine that right now. I can only assure you that I am completely unaware of anyone in our extended family acting in an inappropriate manner. Since we are dealing with issues surrounding sexuality, older males are statistically the likeliest culprits. Our grandparents died young, Grandmere Vernet being the exception. Since Aunt Margaret left Uncle Fredrick before you were born (shortly after their third girl) and Uncle Rudy's relief once his cross-dressing was disclosed strongly suggests that that was the only secret he had been harbouring, I find the probability of it being an extended family member rather low. With Sherrinford studying abroad at that time, that would leave our father and myself, though our mother is always a possibility. I don't see anything that would implicate either of them, and the general pattern with two siblings would likely be to start with the first-born and use the threat of harming the second to ensure silence. As for me, I can assure you, I have never touched any... what shall I refer to them as... any of your *ahem* 'private parts'." Sherlock suppressed a subconscious urge to narrow his eyes in anger at the abrupt shift to a mocking tone, or to turn away from him in embarrassment, in order to maintain the steady eye contact required to assess the level of truth in his brother's words. "Nor have you ever laid so much as a finger on mine. Ever. Even in a non-sexual capacity." Mycroft wrinkled his nose as if in distaste. "I've never so much as changed your diaper or soaped you up in the bath."

Sherlock eyed him closely, nodded tersely. "Yes, I see."

"I apologize, I am not entirely sure how one expresses condolences in this situation."

"Unnecessary."

"Might I ask, what inspired this conversation?"

"No, you may not."


	11. Truth

"So, not what you expected, then?"

John wasn't particularly good at reading his boyfriend's face, (_Yes, boyfriend, dammit. If I could have "girlfriends" then I can have a "boyfriend". Nothing adolescent about it; it just takes some getting used to, is all _) but this was obvious. Disappointment.

"No. Not quite. Something's off. He's not lying, but, it just doesn't _fit_."

"There's more than one way to lie, you know. Lying by omission is a big one. I'm a bit of an expert at that." John smiled, but there was a sadness in his eyes. "Not to make it about me, you see, but I know that feeling rather well. When it isn't exactly right, but it isn't exactly wrong either. Don't let it fool you. Trust your instincts."

"Instincts are nothing without facts to back them up. I can not make bricks without clay. Give me data!" He threw his coat on the hook.

John was worried. Tea. Tea would help. Tea always helps. "Bloody British Penicillin," he said, nearly to himself, but he was making a pot all the same.

Sherlock pounced on the couch, still clearly furious. He moved his hands aggressively as he spoke.

"It's difficult with him. He could fool me if he wanted to, but I don't think he truly does. Eventually, nearly everyone wants to be found out on some level. Pride. Guilt. Boredom. He is no exception."

"So, you _did_ get somewhere?" His confidence had increased after the visit.

"In a manner of speaking. I know he didn't lie. But there is a greater truth. And..." _And, this is why I need John Watson. Always the whetting stone to my mind, _"...he tried to make me turn away. He tried to distract my train of thought. Purposefully. With Mycroft, it is _always_ purposefully."

"I know you want hard evidence, but you might never get it."

"Never to move beyond mere suspicion. How infuriating! Crueler than the act itself."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far."

"He denied ever laying a finger on me. And that's 100% true. I know it!"

"Concealment within truth, Sherlock."

"Yes. But if what he said is true, and there's really no other conclusion I can come to, then it's simply not enough."

John brought the tea to the sofa. "I don't..." He cut himself short. Shook the words out of his head. He was not about to say "I don't understand" again. Not for a long, long time. "What do you mean by 'not enough'?"

"Whatever he did would not have been severe enough to have had, that effect on me." Sherlock turned away and muttered, "I'm sorry, John."

John was stunned. Hearing those words coming from Sherlock Holmes was a rarity in and of itself, but in this context it was completely jarring.

"You have nothing whatsoever to be sorry about. Well, that's not entirely true. The fingernails on the countertop, for the cyanide..."

"Arsenic."

"... arsenic test. That is something you should be apologizing for. But not your emotional reactions. Never that. There is a lot for you to process right now. Being angry, even when it doesn't make sense to you why... I think I'm starting to get that bit now, seeing someone else go through it that, isn't me. It's all good. Really. It just might be OK. To feel."


	12. Dissolution

It had happened shortly after what John liked to refer to as "Stag Do 2". Mary was out of the picture, raising Violet, enjoying the safe, quiet, mundane life she craved. John (the work of the adrenaline junkie within, he cynically thought) had always secretly suspected that something especially melodramatic might tear them apart. Another husband in The States whom everyone thought dead, or a fatal adventure (where it was indeed death that parted them) as she took a bullet for Sherlock in some cosmic balancing of the scales. But, in the end, their marriage simply dissolved, just like so many others.

It wasn't that he didn't like her, or perhaps, even still love her. He wasn't quite sure what it was, really, but her desperation to keep him seemed to only make things worse. Maybe, at a certain point, she just suddenly realized she didn't need him to take her away from her old life; she could do that on her own. And as John had predicted, he never quite dealt with his anger toward her for not confiding in him. Not confiding in Sherlock.

John adored his daughter, but he and Harry had always been the glue that kept a rather miserable relationship together, one that had been destructive for all concerned, and he was not about to repeat that error in his own life. The separation was amicable. He wished her well, he really did. It seemed somehow healthier, letting it go.

On what would have been his third anniversary, he found himself brooding, which led to Sherlock suggesting a celebration of the freedom that was, rather than wallowing in despair for what might have been.

It had been an exceptionally good call.


	13. Stag Do 2

No sooner had they staggered drunkenly back to 221B then they were finding excuses to talk about subjects they'd never quite broached before. Sex, mainly. How John missed it, and couldn't understand how Sherlock didn't. Sherlock simply pointed out that missing something requires one to have actually Ihad /iit. John had never asked if he was actually a virgin, and even through his alcohol-induced haze, Sherlock smirked and said something along the lines of it all depends on how one defines the terms, yes?

His rather limited experience had been born out of curiosity, not desire. John listened. John talked. In the end, John had a very good understanding of Sherlock's general lack of interest in things sexual, his somewhat limited drive, and his extremely limited (possibly non-existent) attraction to people based on sexual lure alone. He was also rather shocked to find that Sherlock was unaware of John's sexual history, or rather, claimed to be. Whether this was a legitimate blind spot for his friend or merely a clever way to hear John talk about it in his own words was not something his mind could attempt to puzzle out in this state.

"I never would have expected you to be celibate, Sherlock, I mean the whole 'emotion interferes with the work', I get that, I do, so, I guess I do get that, but, never? I mean, the thought of you taking anyone's word on anything, I would have thought you were the type to... well, to try a little bit of everything, to be honest. For, ummm, science?"

Sherlock managed a shy smile in return. That was good. That was good, because John wasn't quite sure if what he said had been a compliment or an insult. The smile itself was good, too. So. Yeah.

"And you are so bloody gorgeous and clever enough to talk your way into anyone's pants if you wanted to."

The smile faded quickly.

John continued. "I mean, you pulled Janine, and she was a fine one."

"For a case, John."

"Right. And you probably offered Molly a little something in return for her help with your... death thing, then?"

"No. She... had... just wanted to help me." He sounded as if it was still a bit bewildering, even after all this time.

"So, opportunity, but no interest. Don't tell me you weren't interested in Irene. I was in the room for the eye sex."

"Eye sex? Oh, of course. Eye sex. Yes, I was, intrigued, for a short time. I could have learned quite a lot, and she was fascinating, but I wasn't about to expose myself to her."

"James Bond would have."

"I'm definitely Inot /IJames Bond."

"Hate-sex. The power of lust. You're missing out on some things, my friend. Have you never felt that? That thing that just makes you want to..." John reached out towards Sherlock, stopping mere inches away, miming the act of forcefully grabbing him and dragging him closer. "You know, beyond a conscious thought, beyond a rational decision. Pure. Want."

Sherlock considered it. In the moments of silence, John watched his face. Studied it, actually. Then Sherlock spoke.

"No. I've... wanted... but for me, everything starts here." He pointed to his forehead. It made him remember how, three years ago, sitting in these very same chairs, he had had some paper stuck to it... and he laughed.

"You have? The no-interest-in-hate-sex rules out quite a lot of people we know, actually." He smiled. "It was in Uni, right? Too bad it's not someone I know. You could stick their name on my forehead and let me guess." This time, John let out a clear, joyous, beautiful laugh.

"It is someone you know." Sherlock took a breath and fixed his gaze on John's eyes. "Intimately."

John was caught by the stare. He felt pinned to the wall by it. He was no idiot. It was all there in Sherlock's eyes. The fear, the hurt, the want, the remnants of a long buried hope. John shifted toward him, cupped Sherlock's face to steady him, as well as to steady his own hands, and kissed him.


	14. The Only Selfless Action

Sherlock stopped the relatively chaste kiss from progressing, adamant that if they were to do this, really do this, it couldn't be some drunken one-off night. John respected the request in deed, but not exactly in word.

"Sherlock Holmes, by this time tomorrow, I am going to have had already kissed you on every inch of exposed skin I can find, and then would have removed your clothing to make some more. Did that make sense?" he slurred. "I sure hope it does."

"John..."

"You are going to be up all night with your hand on your cock trying to clear your head of all the things I'm going to do to you tomorrow."

"John, we need to see where this goes when sober; don't do this."

"You're nervous? You're nervous if we did this I'm going to wake up tomorrow and wonder what the hell I was thinking? Or are you just not sure how much of this you really want? 'Cause, slow is fine. Very, very slow, and, and I'm sorry if what I was saying, if that sounded aggressive. I just want... well, I just want you. However you are good with, yeah?"

"John Watson, I want to catalogue every movement, every twitch, every sigh, every everything. I want to do it with a clear head and... functioning memory, and... without running the risk of stopping to..." his voice grew a bit unsteady, "vomit on the carpet." _And to give you a chance to decide to forget it all. Chances, not manipulation. But this would be dangerous, with me, so you'll be there._

John laughed again. "I can't believe we actually took that case. We could barely function at all."

"I'm grateful it came up. I desperately needed the diversion."

That Sherlock had been attracted to him, all this time? How much of this time? Well, it had never occurred to him, but it made a hellovalot of sense now... the dance they'd been doing... closeness, distance... moving forward with real emotion, backing away with tricks and jokes. And with Mary... and the baby...factored in...

"You needed to give Mary a fair chance. I, decided to go into a fall back position." _Fall back, don't dislodge that piece stuck in your chest or you'll bleed out... _"The course of true love ne'er did run smooth."

"You have room in that brain attic for Shakespeare, but not enough for the Earth going 'round the Sun? And you called me a romantic!" John sunk his head into his hands. "What the hell was I thinking? When you came back, showed up at that restaurant..."

"Bad idea."

"Co_loss_ally bad idea, Sherlock. Was that your epic plan?" _Christ, yeah that'll kill the sexual tension in the air... remind me of just how much I wanted to strangle you._

"Not, exactly. I... improvised. I had intended to simply sit in my chair at Baker Street and await your return. Maybe ask for a pen. But, you were no longer there."

John was puzzled. Had it never occurred to him how he simply couldn't live there anymore, surrounded by Sherlock, knowing that he was gone? That he had failed him. His face grew tight.

"John, the opposite of love is not hate. It's indifference."

"I'm not near sober enough to exchange quotations with you. I'm not sure I even get the point of that one, to be honest. It's not just that you died, Sherlock. It's not just that you stayed away, and didn't say a word, though believe me, that's plenty enough. When I look back on it now, I like to think that you were accomplishing something great that my presence would have really fucked up. And I'm not entirely sure I wouldn't have gone through hell just to be right by your side. Because that's where I belong. But back then? You let me think that you had killed yourself. Had thrown it all away. That I wasn't worth stopping you... that any of it wasn't worth stopping you. But, in spite of all the nights I felt like joining you in death, after a visit to that slab during the day, I somehow managed to find someone to rescue me. A bit sudden, maybe, but I jumped at it. You... you probably knew Mary and I wouldn't last...but you still..."

"Balance of probability, John. I, truly did want you to have your best chance at happiness. Without Magnussen. Without me. That plane was meant to take me out of your life. I wasn't coming back."

"I don't know if I truly believed it. I think I always expected you to find a way. So, you were willing to desert me, for my wife. That is probably the only selfless action which I can recall in our... entire association. I bet you even had a selfish reason for wanting me to be your flatmate."

Sherlock's eyes travelled up and to the left as he grinned. "Not entirely boring. Tidy. The limp could be a singular challenge."

"Figures. Go to bed, Sherlock. I'll...join you...in the morning. May I?" He leaned in toward Sherlock, as Sherlock moved toward him. The kiss was soft, warm, and completely confident. "To be continued..." said John, as he turned toward the stairs.


	15. Unbuttoned

[Author's Note: this May sound like Magic Healing Cock right now. Trust me...it isn't.]

* * *

John always woke earlier than Sherlock. He had never quite rid himself of military habits, and was seldom asleep past 6. Throwing a robe on, he began descending the stairs with purpose, pleased by the relative lack of hangover. His jovial mood rapidly deteriorated, however, as he heard noises from below. Sherlock was awake. Which meant he had probably never slept... and the odds weren't in favour of it being due to breathless anticipation.

Sherlock was at the microscope.

"Morning, Sherlock."

"Mmmm."

"I'm surprised to see you awake this early."

"This late," Sherlock corrected.

"As you are probably well aware, it takes considerably more alcohol than that for me to forget the previous night." A fleeting panic set in, as John realised Sherlock _might very well_ have forgotten the previous night... could have deleted the whole thing. "So, before I start jumping to inaccurate conclusions without, as you say, sufficient data, why are you not in bed? With me."

Sherlock blinked quickly, lashes fluttering. Processing, John knew.

"John, I should consider myself a criminal if I kept you out of my bed any longer."

He abandoned his test tubes and paused only long enough to turn off a Bunsen burner before heading to his room, undoing his shirtsleeve buttons as he walked. He didn't so much as glance backward as he moved in a sort of steady glide. He continued to undo buttons, then tossed the shirt carelessly aside before opening his bedroom door. John had simply followed, as if that was all he was capable of at the moment. When he stood in Sherlock's doorway, still fully-clothed, and surveyed the naked man on the bed, he startled himself out of the trance. He looked down at himself, and rapidly undressed.

Sherlock seemed to enjoy being stared at. He placed his arms over his head and stretched out his body into an impossibly long, lean line. For a man composed of so many sharp angles, John was surprised to see a softness, even slight curves where muscle clung to bone. He looked extremely relaxed and comfortable. He wasn't erect. Sherlock tracked John's gaze.

"Oh. In time. Perfectly functional, I assure you. Just a bit lagging behind my brain." He ran his hand along his chest, sliding slowly down his stomach. "Requires a bit of guidance. Nothing to take personally. In the meantime, I suggest you look for secondary signs of interest. Like my lips wrapped around your cock." Sherlock hit the final consonant hard.

Being in bed with Sherlock Holmes was every bit the dramatic experience he had anticipated whilst lying awake in bed alone the night before... though in truth he had expected the man to be far more reticent. That had been a stupid assumption, as if inexperience could ever overshadow the forcefulness of his personality. John allowed himself to be pressed down by an endless expanse of arms and legs and pinned, the recipient of hard kisses and long, swathing licks. Sherlock's lack of experience only presented itself for a brief moment, when he slowed down considerably to gradually allow himself to completely engulf John's cock. John looked down at those dark curls and wanted to grab them by the fistful, but remained immobilized, since Sherlock held both his hands, their fingers laced. The only movement John was capable of was the involuntary motion of hips rocking into that perfect mouth. John watched Sherlock grind into the sheets in time with John's upward thrusts.

Sherlock released his hands, wrapping them around John's thighs and shifting his knees upward to spread them apart, his mouth teasing a trail downward, then lower still.

"Oh God, Sherlock, oh my God... " The sensation was entirely new to John, and dammit if Sherlock didn't somehow know it, placing them back on equal footing. He was harder than he had ever been in his life, and wanted nothing more than to grab him and shove that playful tongue even further into his body, but no, no. He couldn't just do that. He placed his hands gently at the back of his neck instead, stroking his shoulders lightly, trying to retain some degree of composure, trying to remember to breathe. _Sherlock was fucking right. Breathing is boring. This. Ohhhh. This is..._

Sherlock pulled away abruptly and shifted positions, leaning back.

"Take me, John," he rasped, as if speaking had required a great effort. "I need you to take me."


	16. Lost in the Moment

He should have known. The sudden shift, the loss of focus. But no, John had been lost in the moment.

Sherlock had been lost too, he supposed... in a sense. John had thought being relatively still while being opened up had been a boring prospect at best for Sherlock, and probably was slightly uncomfortable (though a skilled physician, proctology was hardly his... area). In retrospect, he had been entirely too quiet. Oh, he had eventually groaned and mumbled instructions to get on with it already, and the impatience had seemed perfectly in character. To be fair (although John had absolutely no intention of being fair, especially to himself), he claimed it had only been a very short while before he came back... having reached some sort of conclusion. But he should have known, should have thought perhaps something was wrong, not just Sherlock wanting to be, well, serviced, like the petulant, lazy git he frequently was. Damn.

It took a whole week, and even then, it was only because Sherlock couldn't hide his reaction quickly enough. When he hadn't been able to suppress a flinch as he sleepily leaned against John on the sofa while he was delicately twirling his hair, John had asked and he had answered as best he could... trying to find words for the feeling he could scarcely describe. As a doctor, his first thought had been a medical condition... an inner-ear infection, perhaps... which had left Sherlock feeling vaguely disoriented at the change in position from leaning on John's shoulder to placing his head into his lap. If not for his persistent questioning, Sherlock wouldn't have said a thing about it, and he certainly hadn't intended to confess to it ever having happened previously. Maybe he had had the right idea. John would almost have preferred to have continued to think of him as a lazy git. Almost.

A whole week of ignorance. _Not that Sherlock had expected any different. I mean, he was trying to be disingenuous, and who in the world can see through Sherlock at times like that?_

What? Did he expect him to have said, "John, I need to go into my mind palace a bit during our first time together. Just trying to figure out if I've ever been held down and had a cock involuntarily shoved down my throat or up my arse. Be back in a jiff... just keep doing what you're doing, would you, while I see if it gets exponentially worse for me as we go along. Ta!" Or perhaps "OK, back now. Not quite as bad as I had initially thought, but bears further investigation. Carry on, my good man! Now, where were we. Oh, yes... harder, John!"

He would have stopped. Bloody fucking Hell, of course he would have stopped. But Sherlock hadn't exactly wanted that to happen, had he?


	17. 20 Seconds

What were you doing in there?"

John had just glanced up from his laptop to find Sherlock sprawled out on the couch, eyes on the ceiling. Well, it seemed like they were looking at the ceiling...but clearly they were not focusing on anything at all.

Sherlock wrinkled his brow in response.

"You know what I mean. In your Mindpalace."

"Hmmmm. Nothing of consequence. Sometimes I just, wander about. See if I want to delete any extraneous information."

"Not now, Sherlock. Then."

Sherlock sighed and shifted his body to sitting position.

"You want to know that, John?"

"I think I have a bloody right to."John's words were harsh, but his voice was calm and even. This was John at his most dangerous. A fierce determination. Sherlock cocked his head and reflexively slid backwards on the couch.

"I suppose so?" he said, uncertainly.

"We get, _remarkably _pissed, and then you do whatever it is you do to convince me to have sex with you, some head game of yours to get me wrapped around your goddamn elegant fingers, and then you back off just enough to make me want it even more, and it's all so you can use me while you go inside your head while I'm ... " he shook his head to purge his thoughts. "You orchestrated it beautifully, Sherlock. I know it doesn't make any sense for you to want to have sex with me. You did it just so you...so I could ...so you could run an experiment, right. You made me..."

"I made you what, John? I made you have sex. Oh, forgive me John, what an absolutely terrible thing I made you do, to fuck me, John! However will you recover from that? I ruined your precious little "not gay" identity."

"That's not what I'm talking about at all, and you know it. I've been attracted to you for a long time, and I don't give a fuck what you want to call me. I wasn't gay because, you weren't. I'm gay. Fine. Ok . You want to call it that, fine. That is not the point. Answer me! What were you doing in there?"

Sherlock sat bolt upright and readjusted his dressing gown. "Comparing sensations. Seeing if I had ever felt any physical similarities. Cataloging my reactions to different types of stimulation and seeing if any of it was familiar to..."

"I thought so. And while you're comparing past notes, you're letting me take on the role of rapist. How nice of you to inform me in advance."

"John. I wanted you to do that. I wasn't..."

"Like hell you weren't, Sherlock. That. Is exactly. What you were doing." He stopped for breath between the clusters of evenly spaced words. "You never wanted to have sex with me. You're asexual, for Christ's sake, you hate sex. And this whole thing was just to get me to take things past your comfort zone."

"I don't hate sex. I just don't much see the point. Usually. But I wanted to."

"You wanted someone to push you too far to see what would happen, you mean. So you orchestrated this whole thing: the party, the drinking, the talk. The..."

"No, no, no John, I didn't do that . That, just happened. I ... never expected it to. I, had hoped it might, but... and I wanted to wait because I was, maybe a little bit thinking you wouldn't want this with me. Because I won't want as much as you do. Because I'm, difficult. But, I didn't set this up. I wasn't expecting this reaction. Nothing was the least bit problematic, until you.."

"Until I what, Sherlock?"

"It's stupid, John. It's so incredibly stupid."

John joined him on the sofa, then backed away just a bit, so as not to crowd him. "What's... stupid," he said softly.

"It was fine. It was more than fine. It was brilliant and glorious, and utterly fantastic. John, you are amazing to watch. How you react. It was sooo _good_, John. And then it wasn't. And then I thought I'd needed to know why, why such a small thing was ..." Sherlock stopped talking.

John thought back to what they had been doing together. The kissing had started the night before, had been simple and sweet and perfect. Then the next day it was Sherlock who controlled the pacing, so it couldn't have been him pressuring him. Sherlock pinning him down. Sherlock putting his mouth on him...was that it ?

"Oral sex, Sherlock. Is that a problem for you?"

Sherlock looked down and shook his head.

"No. Ok. Ok. So... rimming." Ok. Ok. That had been really fucking incredible, but, until then, he had never done it, so going without would be no great loss.

"No. After."

"So, you are saying you did want to have sex with me, but reacted badly to it? I thought, well honestly, looking back, I thought that that part was just so you could tune out more easily. Kind of let me take over so you could retreat."

Sherlock managed a weak smile.

"Sherlock, we don't have to have that type of sex. My God, never again. Or we could switch places. If you wanted to. You mean you're fine with everything else?"

Sherlock looked down at the floor.

"I'm... I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know I shouldn't be so bloody pleased, like that's all it is, we're done here, just avoid this activity and... well, I know it's not like that. I just feel, hopeful, that we can work around this. It's just all so new and ... precious. I don't want to lose this."

"John, you pick the most inconvenient moments to be observant. You're correct. Suggesting you penetrate me was a calculated move so I could examine things without, breaking our momentum. Once I was taking your fingers, I was cataloging. The moment I felt this negative flood of data, was when you were brushing your hand against the back of my neck and my shoulders. I felt compelled to see where it was coming from. I know it's nothing, really, but, it felt like something, something big, and I had to go figure it out. And, yes, see if it got worse. But it didn't. It got much, much better. Preparation was fine, and when I felt you slowly move inside me, that was, that was more than fine that was absolutely amazing to be connected, and, I was there for all of that, and...well not all of it, when you first breached me I checked for comparative data, but there was none, and... and I filed away my notes and came back. I was, hoping you wouldn't notice, it was a short amount of time, 20 seconds of observation to compile, just at the start of each new activity."

"So when you came, you weren't... "

"No, I was finished long before then. Though I certainly wouldn't think of my orgasm the pinnacle of the experience, in any case."

"And did it help? The comparisons. What did you find?"


	18. Not Broken, Not Defective

John had been watching Sherlock sleep for the past hour. He got up, made tea and toast, considered showering, but decided instead to climb back into bed.

John was used to Sherlock talking his way to a solution, but now he was being uncharacteristically tight-lipped. When John had asked what he had remembered, about his suspicions, he had dismissed it all.

"Irrelevant." "Unfounded." "Mere conjecture."

Once, he thought Sherlock had been about to say something, but he stopped abruptly.

Sherlock was shutting him out. Maybe he just needed time. Maybe having John around was making things worse, his very presence somehow pressuring him. Maybe he should just give him space to think.

Sherlock, just now waking, grabbed at John's waist and pulled him close against his body. John shifted away.

"I think, we need to back off a bit. So you can figure this out."

Sherlock's eyes flashed as he raised himself up on his forearms. "Figure out what, exactly? Back off... how?"

"You need some time, Sherlock. This could change how you feel about things. Provide you with some, needed explanations."

"Explain what? Explain me? Aren't we all a product of our predispositions as well as our experiences?" Sherlock bolted out of bed and wrapped his dressing gown around him tightly. "John, for me, no relationships are about sex, so, in a sense, every relationship is about sex. Would it help or hurt, that extra layer of complication? Any friendship. Any relationship. Any chance meeting. I make a choice for it to be sexual or not. It is a conscious decision." His words continued to gain speed and intensity as his voice dropped into deductive mode. "Apart from taboos, which are illogical for non-reproductive relationships... and apart from social convention, which is simply the opinion of the majority imposed on the minority... every type of relationship, be it personal or professional, has sexual undertones. It's difficult enough being in a romantic relationship with one person, let alone more than one, so I suppose I'm monogamous by default, not by any ridiculous moral code, but nothing about this past event, or events, affects my choices, my decision-making skills, my self." He continued after the briefest of pauses. "If I _choose this,_ why should _anything_ suddenly _change_? "

"Have you ever thought about what this side of the conversation is like? Listening to you? I mean, we are discussing us, Sherlock, not debating anthropological theories. This is... you are saying you got into a relationship, a sexual relationship, with me, not because you found me particularly handsome or fit (God knows those days are behind me), but because you thought 'sure, why the hell not?' And my having wanted to make my marriage work, regardless of my developing physical attraction to _you_, is ridiculous moral code, is it? And here you are, a victim of what might amount to years of sexual abuse, and you think that has _nothing whatsoever_ to do with the fact that you have always avoided sex? So it just comes down to 'I haven't had sex in a month, might be a good thing to do to keep the pipes working?' and that's how you define yourself and that's just fine, is it? _Nothing to ponder here_." John stormed off to the kitchen.

"The pipes take care of themselves eventually, John," Sherlock muttered. "Might as well not wake up to it."

John turned back towards Sherlock, who was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Does it at least feel good to you? Sex with me?"

"Yes, of course it... the chemical reactions are what they are. It's about so much more than merely feeling good. But why should I have to justify my actions to you? Have you ever thought for even a moment that it's all you..." he seemed to gather more disdain the longer he continued to speak, eyes narrowing, " _people_ out there seeking a _rush_ that is the problem? All you oxytocin-dopamine-norepinephrine-serotonin-testosterone _junkies_ seeking chemical satiation and calling it love?! Driving everyone else to figure out what the hell's wrong with them, when it's really all of _you_ with the problem. Damn it, there's nothing wrong with me! I'm not broken, John! I'm just wired differently. I'm not defective. I'm..." He didn't bother to finish, he just headed back to bed and slammed the door.

_So many years, discovering what I am. That I'm fine and it all makes sense. That I'm not broken. But now, I am broken, as well. But not because of this.  
Because of Mycroft._


	19. Apologies

John was running late. It took him longer than usual to make his way out of the tangle of limbs that was Sherlock Holmes and make his way to the shower. He grabbed a quick slice of toast, and headed out the door. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he felt something in one. Pulling it out, he discovered a small, silver tube of L'Occitane Shea Butter Hand Cream and a note tied to the cap with a thin, red ribbon.

"Apologies for the arsenic-contaminated fingernails upon the countertop, slammed doors, broken mugs, and any other crimes perpetrated upon our flat or its contents within the past two-and-one-half weeks. Please do be advised, this note does not constitute an apology for emotional reactions. -S"

John smiled. He was finally getting better at this. Cutting words, a march to the bedroom and a slammed door meant 'come after me if you love me'. He had made the right choice following Sherlock, letting him spew poison at the Universe for being the way it was, and holding him afterwards, even when he was convinced he deserved no such thing. He had stopped trying to create distance for him when he needed to prove he was fully capable of closeness. He had given him the opportunity to do just that, on his own terms.

Each time he washed his hands between patients, he grabbed some of the lotion. Sure beat the stuff in the office. This was Expensive French Stuff. He couldn't resist grinning again as he checked the time, wondering what Sherlock was up to this afternoon. He sent a text thanking him for his good taste before heading back to the exam room for his next patient.


	20. Answers

Sherlock heard the text alert and allowed a quick smile to cross his face as he turned down the volume on his mobile. He knew exactly who it was, and he would be wanting to read it very much five to seven minutes from now. Mycroft often liked to talk slower than was strictly necessary, so the timing could only be an approximation.

"Why this room? Why not the Strangers' Room?"

"The other rooms have surveillance equipment, Sherlock. This one is different. It is unmonitored. It is private. It is entirely soundproof. If you want to have a discussion, or, I suppose, murder someone without witnesses, then this would be the place to do it."

"And you think I have a need to murder someone without witnesses?"

"Perhaps."

Mycroft crossed to a flask of brandy and poured himself a glass. He raised an empty one and tilted it in his brother's direction. Sherlock shook his head. "We're different, you and I," Mycroft began.

"Yes. I know."

Mycroft frowned. Sherlock grinned.

"I know that's not how you meant that statement to be interpreted, but please, do go on... Brother Mine."

"The, _rules_, that apply to normal people, they don't have to apply to us. We are not _normal people_, Sherlock." He gestured with his glass, but didn't drink from it. "The Latin root means unchaste. Impure. Such archaic terms. Chastity. Purity."

"Ever the linguist. Good with your tongue, then? Can't say I quite recall. Not _exactly_ a finger, is it?"

Mycroft leaned against a large, mahogany desk, ignoring the comment. "I prefer 'consanguineous relationship'. Better etymology... 'of the same blood'. Ancient Egypt. The Incan Empire. To preserve greatness."

"Small islands and mountainous tribes. Primitive cultures. A survival mechanism when faced with extreme isolation. There is no need for such isolation in today's world. But it's not the fact that you're my brother that concerns me. That is irrelevant... a boundary entirely created by culture. Of course, that was all about children. It has always been about children, in one way or another, but that is hardly the issue here."

"True. An estimated 50,000 active genes in humans, no need to concern ourselves with deleterious recessive alleles."

"And, might I say, preserving royal lineage, that's a very lofty justification for what essentially amounts to the selfish behavior of a horny teenager. The issue, Mycroft, is consent."

"Yes. Certainly. When I came back from Break, I dragged you into my room and forced you into compromising positions. I also took away all other furniture within miles of the telly, forcing you to lean against me."

Sherlock fell silent, his confidence vanished. He had sat there of his own free will. He had gone to him. He had...been... pleased he was home again?

"We deny these things, but it doesn't make them any less true. We try to lead the lives people expect of us. But there is nothing amiss. Just the... selfish behavior of a horny Ipre-teen/I as well." Mycroft's smile was warmer now. Inviting.

Something in it seemed to break the spell.

"I was many things, Mycroft. Misunderstood, isolated, bored, restless, terribly lonely... however, one thing I was certainly not, was," he let a wave of anger carry him through to finish, " a 'horny pre-teen'."

Silence returned. Mycroft swirled the drink as he held it to his nose. "You've likely heard of the rooting reflex. If you stroke a newborn's cheek, he will open his mouth and turn his head toward that side. A newborn will suck anything, you know. Instinctual." He placed the glass down.

"Up to about four months of age. I somehow doubt this diversion interested you at age seven."

"Might have. For the depraved, there are no restrictions based upon age. I suppose this is a suitable role for me. Your arch-enemy."

Sherlock crossed to the brandy and poured himself a glass. "I know how this game goes. You manage to portray yourself as evil incarnate. I see that you couldn't possibly have been... having looked after my well-being for years, from a far enough distance for me to Ialmost/I not have noticed. Then part of me, the _stupid_ part, rushes to your defense. 'That can't be the same man... it doesn't fit.' I decide I must have gotten it wrong." Sherlock paused to sip his drink.

"Didn't see all the parts clearly, assumed they weren't there," Mycroft said under his breath, turning towards the window, eyeing his own reflection in the one-way-glass.

"Or, alternatively, I forgive you. Figure you must have been subjected to something far worse. Or, perhaps, I try to understand you. No tragic motivation, just an escalating lack of concern for someone else's right to their own body's autonomy. A gradual process. Put myself in your shoes, so to speak."

Mycroft faced Sherlock again, watching quietly as he continued. "I don't care to do that. I don't care to do any of those things. And I don't choose to absolve you. However far you went, it was far enough. We both know that. We each live with the consequences." He placed the glass back on the table. "Thank you for the conversation. It has been enlightening."

"You're welcome. It was the least I could do."

Sherlock waited until the cab pulled away from the kerb to check his mobile- a reward for an unpleasant task completed.

_Yes, I've always had impeccable taste -S_

_On a case?_

_Finished earlier than I had anticipated. Chinese? -S_

_Perfect. Home at 4._


End file.
